


His Own Special Creation

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle XI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Continuum (AU) Baal plans to take out his failure on the last of his clones, then decides on a better form of "punishment"...</p><p>Based on the prompt: Ba'al/Ba'al, balls</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own Special Creation

Baal is, to coin an Earth colloquialism, pissed off. His empire is in tatters, his Jaffa scattered. All his carefully laid plans have come to nothing and he is _not_ pleased at this outcome. He knows that the SGC believes him to be dead, the last of the clones extracted. He also knows this is incorrect: after all, he is here and still breathing.

And one other marker flashes on his screen.

The problem with the cloning process was that he didn't quite manage to perfect it. Oh he could have, given more time, but his impatience and the very-present threat of the Ori got the better of him. Resulting in some of the clones being... less than they should be. He would never have been so cowardly as to flee a battle. On the other hand, the last clone's retreat does mean that one has survived. Perhaps he can yet rise from the ashes of his defeat.

Half an hour after activating the recall function he installed in every clone, Baal lounges on his throne and regards the pathetic specimen grovelling on the floor. He doesn't like what he sees – after all, no matter how inferior it is, this is a reflection of himself – and he frowns, fingers laced together as he considers what to do now.

“We have failed,” he says and the clone flinches. “Earth remains free and our empire is no more. One cannot be a System Lord if there is no system to lord over, can one?”

“No, my Lord.”

Baal breathes out through his nose. Hearing such subservience reminds him only of being under Anubis's thumb, and he represses a shudder. He serves  _no one_  now, though this one... Narrowing his eyes, he gazes at the clone. On its knees, with its head bowed, it presents a picture he would never subject himself to. Or he had not thought so, but it is a little appealing. On a very base level, but he can be that at times. Two thousand years is long enough to have tried most perversions at least once, and it's not like he hasn't had male slaves before.

A smile crawls across his face: perhaps the inconsistencies of the cloning process was not wholly bad. Not if it gives him the perfect plaything. No one knows him better than himself, after all.

“Rise,” he orders and waits for the clone to obey. It still doesn't met his gaze. He smirks. “Strip.”

There is a brief, startled glance, then it does as it is required. Baal watches the layers come off. It has, at least, stayed in shape whilst cowering in a far-flung corner of the galaxy, and the body is toned, tanned and as beautiful as he is. Or would be, if it were not so dirty. He needs to take care of _that_ before he does anything else. Rising from the throne, he says, “Come,” and walks away without a backwards glance. Soft padding tells him the clone follows.

In the bathing room, Baal turns on the taps and then sets to removing his own clothes. Such a menial task is beneath him, but better to suffer that than allow grubby handprints to mar his clothing. When he catches the clone watching he smirks and makes more of a show. Its lust is an expression he's seen reflected often enough: this is going to be almost too easy.

Motioning at the bath, he orders, “In.”

The water is warm, scented and very pleasant to be in. For a while Baal just lies back, eyes closed as he drinks in the sensations. Soft splashing announces the clone is cleaning itself. He opens one eye and watches it rubbing golen limbs with a sponge. It's too good an opportunity to miss and he pushes upright, then closes the gap and takes the sponge from the clone. Again he is given a startled look and he smiles. He makes a motion that is not really a request and the clone's eyes widen as the import sinks in. Whether it wishes what he plans or merely knows there is no choice, it bows its head in acquiescent.

Soaping another body is something Baal has done before, but so long ago the memory is dusty. Was it truly this pleasurable to run lather-slicked hands over skin? No wonder his slaves were always ready after performing this task on himself. He has clearly been missing out by only receiving. And it's also clear that the clone is experiencing as much pleasure from the process, if its impressive erection is anything to go by. A fully functioning toy? Nice. Very nice indeed.

He's tempted to see what it can do with that, but he is the master. His needs must be serviced first if he is to maintain the power balance. And what he needs right now is for the clone to deal with his arousal. Hitching onto the side of the bath tub, Baal motions at his hard cock. “Come here and suck me.”

The clone scrambles to obey, its eagerness gratifying. He smiles and strokes a hand over its short hair as it takes him into its mouth.

A bonus of cloning is the ingrained knowledge passed from him to each of his creations. Amongst the various pieces of information is exactly how he likes being touched, sucked and his fondness for a well-applied tongue. Information that the clone now employs with reverence and a great attention to detail. Its tongue slides over the head of his cock and Baal groans. Leaning back on his hands, he closes his eyes and smiles, gasps as he's taken in deep.

“Good,” he says, voice dropping into the lower resister. “Very good, indeed.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” the clone murmurs and then sinks down on him again. Its fingers slip between his legs to tease at his sack. He jerks at the unexpected contact, then chuckles as waves of pleasure crash over him. Oh yes, this is very good; _definitely_ one of his better ideas. The suction is perfect. The clone slides down and back up in a rhythm that makes his heart pound, then teases him with its tongue, lapping at him until he's quivering with pent-up tension.

“Wait!” He strangles out the desperate cry, not wanting this over just yet. Not when he has much more to explore. “Enough,” he says softer, and smiles as he strokes the clone's face. “That is not how I wish to climax.”

Its eyes meet his, a little bolder now, and interest gleams in their brown depths. “My Lord?”

“You know what I want.”

A smile curves. “Yes, my Lord. I am at your disposal.”

“Are you now?” He leans forward, holding that gaze. Out of sheer curiosity, he presses an open-mouthed kiss against the clone's lips. It tastes of salt and musk, of himself. A thrill skitters down his spine. “I intend to make you my lo'tar. Are you disposed to that idea?”

“I am, my Lord. Most certainly.”

Baal grins. “Good,” he murmured, and then kisses it again. “Then turn around.”

The clone smirks, and he sees even more of himself in that expression, then does as he ordered. Its back is smooth and toned, and the muscles twitch under the hand he skims down. He nudges its legs apart with one knee and then shifts closer. From the rack of bathing supplies, he takes a bottle of what is designed to be massage oil but will suffice for the task he intends. The clone gasps as he drizzles oil between its perfect buttocks. Baal chuckles and pours a little more into his palm, smooths it in long strokes over his cock. Then positions himself behind his clone.

His oil-slicked flesh encounters very little resistance. Then again, he knows where his own pain threshold is and figures it's going to be roughly the same for the clone. A husky moan tells him he was right about that assumption.

Its ass is tight. He pushes in deeper, biting back a moan of his own as the way the hot walls grip him. Once he is fully inserted, he caresses the clone's quivering flesh, fingers running over territory that is both strange and familiar. He reaches around and takes hold of its cock, sliding his grip up and down as it moans, head thrashing from side to side. He keeps up the momentum until he's sure it is close to breaking, then slows and eases his grip.

“Not yet,” he breathes heavily. “Not until I say so.”

The clone whimpers.

“Do you hear me?”

“Y-yes, my Lord. As you command.”

Baal snorts. “I don't. And you will not come until I do.”

“No, my Lord.”

Satisfied that the clone will not disobey him, not if it wishes to continue its existence, he grips the damp hips and begins to shift his cock in earnest - out and in, out and in; slow strokes that make them both moan. Then faster, harder, until he's slamming in again and again, the chamber echoing to the clone's moans and cries and the delightful slap of flesh against flesh.

He can feel the build-up as low pressure at the base of his skull. It transmits down his spine and makes his legs tremble. So close. So very, very close. He rams in harder and then reaches for its cock again. If he gets this right, it will be very satisfactory indeed. However, co-ordinating thrusts with slides of his hand takes a little more concentration that he'd planned, and he loses something of his urgency. But there is something he can use to his advantage: he gives some control over to the symbiote and that heightens the number of things he can think of at once. He gives a soft laugh, amused at what multitasking can afford him even as he falls into a rhythm as natural as his own heartbeat.

Pleasure rises, pushed higher by the clone's increasing loss of control. It whimpers, moans and presses back as he slides away, its husky voice begging him for more. And when it cries out a desperate, “Please, my Lord!”, he loses control and comes hard and hot, pounding in with every atom of strength he has left.

And somehow, in the middle of the pulsing blackness, manages his order. “Come.”

The clone groans loudly and slumps, spent. Baal is not far behind and catches his boneless weight on the edge of the tub, sated and buzzing with climatic aftershocks. The knowlege that he was right and that coupling with the clone turned out to be very satisfactory indeed just adds to the fuzzy pleasure coursing through him. He lazes in the water until his breathing evens out and his heart-rate steadies. Then he opens his eyes, finding finds the clone gazing at him adoringly.

“Did I please you, my Lord?” it asks, its tone somewhere between eager and fearful. Baal would be bothered by that if if didn't play right into his hands.

“Indeed you did.” Waving a hand, he adds, “You are forgiven your cowardice. It did, after all, result in my acquiring the perfect slave.”

It bows its head. “My Lord is most generous.”

“Aren't I though? It would seem that I just can't help myself.” Rising from the bath, he holds out a hand. “Come, my lo'tar, and I shall show you just how _generous_ I can be. Repeatedly, should you wish.”

“Oh yes.” Its eyes are bright as it scrambles out of the water. “I do wish that, my Lord.”

Baal smiles and takes its hand. Yes, this has worked out very well indeed. Not even losing to SG1 stings so much now he has something to take his mind off that.

_Repeatedly._


End file.
